These Boots are Made for...

Last night was a Toddler potluck for Baby Boy's play group. As days tend to do, it flew by and personal grooming took a backseat to making a somewhat kid-friendly cheese platter to bring. (My son loves Camembert and goat cheese, why shouldn't they?)

My phone alarm whined a 15-minute warning, leaving no time to shave my very hairy, pale legs. Problem solved: I will wear my fabulous knee-high gray suede boots. I will look amazing and no one will know of the rainforest sprouting below my thighs.

Upon walking into the gorgeous entryway, I notice the small mountain of shoes, kid and adult alike. My panicked eyes rose to see stocking footed daddies and nylon-clad mommies slipping across the cherry floors.

SHIT.

"Um, yes," the hostess says taking my stinky French cheese platter from me. "Just had the floors refinished, so I'm sure you understand that we cannot, cannot have little heel marks." She jutted her chin to the shoes. "So you can just...okay then."

Baby Boy was long gone into the gigantic playroom so snatching him by his hood and dragging him back home wasn't possible. The lights were on way too bright to hope that I could hide in the shadows. I could say I was Mommy and Daddy both?

Off came the boots and then the idea hit me. I avoided the swam of guests and locked myself in the bathroom. Digging through drawers I found a dull, plastic razor but no lotion or cream with which to prepare and moisturize the skin. Oh well. The razor was so dull that it skipped across my legs knicking and biting wherever it could. Dots of blood appeared soon turning into streams puddling on the white granite floor.

I grabbed a "for guests only" towel and feeling giddy, sopped up the blood with the monogrammed linen.

20 minutes later: I was hairless and the bleeding had pretty much stopped. Or so I thought until a few minutes into the buffet the hostess slipped me a tampon as her chin jutted down to the blood running down my calves.